The desire to create, to fill space with the imagined,
to function, accountable, positive, upjetting with the demands of the imagined to exist—
something that can be worked on for hours and hours, giving reasons for living, creating purpose for the creative self—
purposeful enjoyment, the self itself entertaining, if not invariably then still reliably.
The dread of not creating, the feeling of dread that descends when creating is not done, when there are difficulties, when there is not time or not that use of time
the back-up as in drains of wet grey dread, that wordless pulp of squelch and bubbling thinly, caking off in chips—
all the horrid signs of catastrophic drought impending
all the symptoms of poisoning—a jetting burst of psycho-endocrine alarm which leaves traces in the brain.
The dread of not creating
when it passes into the work like a bad gene or a demon and lives there, the work becomes a habitation with a central spider in the door.